


Put the Offer Out

by wanderingoverthewords



Category: Batman - All Media Types
Genre: Additional Warnings In Author's Note, M/M, Reformed Jonathan Crane, Retirement
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-27
Updated: 2020-07-27
Packaged: 2021-03-06 01:41:43
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,097
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25555258
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wanderingoverthewords/pseuds/wanderingoverthewords
Summary: In which Bruce comes up with a new plan for he and Jonathan’s partnership.(Prompt request from Tumblr.)
Relationships: Jonathan Crane/Bruce Wayne
Comments: 6
Kudos: 45





	Put the Offer Out

**Author's Note:**

> Characters: Jonathan Crane/Scarecrow, Batman, Bernie; mentions of nameless Scarecrow henchmen, Lucius Fox, nameless neighbours, nameless employees of Wayne Enterprises, Alfred Pennyworth, Arnold Wesker, Scarface, Molly Randall, Bromley, other Gotham Rogues, Jervis Tetch, Dick Grayson, Tim Drake, Barbara Gordon.
> 
> Pairing: Jonathan Crane/Bruce Wayne.
> 
> Warnings: implications of past child abuse; mentions of murder, forced drugging, psychosis, animal harm, physical assault, use of a weapon, suicide; the comic story ‘Study Hall’ (Batman Adventures Annual #1) is mentioned (which is absolutely canon for my Jonathan Crane), which is based around a rape, so that’ll obviously be mentioned too. 
> 
> Notes: Suppose one can take this as a little peek at an idea I’ve got concerning the ScareBat partnership. Not really as angsty as that list would probably want one to write, but it’s what came to mind.
> 
> A WanderVerse but not really WanderVerse fic.
> 
> All material belongs to DC Comics (although, my interpretations of the characters are used). 
> 
> Prompt request from scarecrow-walks-at-midnight on Tumblr from a Tumblr drabble list: "If you’re still accepting prompts, can I uh get Angst #10 for Scarebat?" (Angst 10 from list: "I'm worried about you.")

Ever since retiring as a Gotham Rogue, Jonathan Crane’s night-time schedule - like many other aspects of his lifestyle - has seen an improvement. No longer does he force himself to stay awake most nights for the sake of research nor is he up all night running from the Batman and sacrificing his henchmen to guarantee his own escape. He is now just a normal, (mostly) well-adjusted citizen of Gotham, with his own apartment on Founders Island that he keeps clean and maintained, a work schedule, medication to take every morning, and he does his best to remember to eat at least two meals a day.

As of right now, Jonathan has eaten dinner, fed Bernie, washed the dishes and watched the evening news, then he’d gotten some paperwork done concerning his involvement at a project with Wayne Enterprises. With that all finished and filed away for tomorrow’s assessment with Lucius Fox and Bruce Wayne himself, he’d gotten a spot of reading done, and is now content to go to bed.

He’s sliding his book back onto the shelf with its brethren when he feels a disturbance in his apartment and a new smell drifts into the air, so slight it could easily be missed by someone not in the know-how, and Jonathan certainly hadn’t missed the brief breeze of air from the window that had seemingly opened and closed of its own accord.

And so Jonathan says, “Hello, Bruce.”

In the corner of his living room, two white slits open in the darkness, then the Batman steps into view, cape wrapped around himself.

“Jonathan,” Batman replies.

Jonathan looks over his shoulder, hand still poised upon his book in the middle of returning it to the shelf. He snorts in amusement.

“Y’know, I always thought it was funny that _yer_ breakin’ an’ enterin’ is excused, while _ours_ warrants a trip ta Arkham,” Jonathan says. He drops his hand and turns to Batman properly. “Now, doin’ it ta yer romantic partner could be considered - in the very least - pretty rude. There’s a _door_ right there,” he nods in its direction, “that ya coulda used.”

“Looking like this?” Batman retorts, opening his cape to gesture at his costume.

“Ain’t no one gonna judge. Think yer’ll find the kid two doors down from here is a pretty big fan o’ yers.” Jonathan sighs through his nose and mimes a mouth opening and closing with one hand. “Wouldn’t stop yammerin’ at me when I first moved in, askin’ me what yer like.”

That boy had been the only one who had had no troubles with the Scarecrow moving into the apartment building. Apparently, the knowledge that the Scarecrow is no longer the Scarecrow had been good enough for him to be perfectly comfortable with approaching Jonathan, tugging on his trouser leg to get his attention, and asking if Batman is as cool as everybody says he is.

His mother had pulled him away before Jonathan could get over the shock of being approached like that so soon after retirement.

Batman briefly smirks in amusement.

“You know that wouldn’t fare well for either of us,” Batman replies, “Batman, visiting one of his former Rogues.”

With a shrug, Jonathan walks over to his armchair and sits down, sensing that there is a legitimate reason Bruce has stopped by in the costume.

“Guess so,” he says, then points lazily at his partner. “So, what _is_ Batman doing, visiting one of his former Rogues? Still checkin’ that I ain’t cookin’ up my fear toxin again?”

He senses his partner hesitate, then Batman lifts his hands and presses both under the jaw of his helmet. With a hiss, it loosens from around his head, and he tugs off the Batman mask to reveal Bruce Wayne’s head, complete with a bit of helmet hair, which he’s clearly used to considering the way he pats the black locks down.

Even though he’s known the secret for a while now, Jonathan still feels a certain heaviness in his chest, seeing Batman so easily and so fluidly turn into Bruce Wayne. Possibly due to the circumstances in which he’d found out, and the aftermath of it.

“I trust you, Jonathan,” Bruce says, “you know that.”

“Sure.”

If Bruce hadn’t trusted Jonathan, then Jonathan wouldn’t currently be in charge of the project wherein fear toxin is being reimagined and tweaked into becoming an antidepressant. One can’t say the same for the other people at Wayne Enterprises, who had asked Mr. Wayne numerous times since Jonathan’s employment if he was serious about having the Scarecrow around as the workplace counsellor, if he really expected them to go to a former serial killer about their problems and why they might’ve been struggling with the work.

Lucius had held his tongue until Bruce had brought Jonathan into his office and proposed the recreation of the drug that had made the Scarecrow so famous, to which Bruce had repeated that he trusts Jonathan not to go back to his old ways.

Bruce hadn’t blamed them for their worries; if he’s completely honest, even he had had a niggling feeling in the back of the head that being surrounded by such fearful people would tempt Jonathan into going back to crime, but they hadn’t seen the look in Jonathan’s eyes when he’d agreed to get help.

He doesn’t show any smugness, but he can feel the discontent from his employees who had really, really wanted to be right about the Scarecrow; Jonathan hasn’t had an episode in ages and his parody of his fear toxin had been created without a hitch, granted Bruce had kept an eye on him while he worked.

“So, why’re ya here?” Jonathan asks.

Bruce steps further into the room and looks at Jonathan with stern yet concerned blue eyes. “I’m worried about you.”

Jonathan raises his eyebrow, chin resting on one hand and elbow of that arm resting on his chair. “Worried?”

Bruce leans down to place his helmet on the table, then walks around it to the couch next to Jonathan’s armchair. He pauses to glance at Jonathan, who just as silently gives him permission to sit by waving a hand at the seat. Bruce does so, moving his cape slightly so it won’t catch on his legs.

“I may not be a psychologist like yourself,” Bruce says, “but I’ve done my research concerning body language, and I’ve noticed you’ve been…sluggish lately. A little distant, not as invested in your work. I’ve known you long enough to know how passionate you are about your work, Jonathan. If there’s a problem, you can tell me.”

That was something Jonathan had had to get used to nowadays: being spoken to like _he_ isn’t the mental health professional.

Jonathan rubs his face. “You talkin’ as my boss or as my partner?”

“Either. Both.”

Jonathan rubs his face again, prompting Bruce to cock his head.

“Is there a problem with your colleagues again? You know I could -”

“I’m an ex-serial killer at a _desk job,”_ Jonathan says, chuckling a little at the absurdity of his life as it is now, “you tell me if my colleagues have a problem with me or not.”

Bruce purses his lips.

He can’t count how many times he’s had to reassure his employees that Dr. Crane won’t return to being a Rogue any time soon, the same as he’d had to do for Arnold Wesker, who currently works in Wayne Tower’s mailroom and regularly has coffee with Jonathan during their breaks as fellow ex-Rogues getting to know each other all over again. At least with Arnold, people had had the shared thought that he’s an older gentleman, so they could probably take him down in a fight, and that he’s really only a threat when carrying that creepy doll of his.

Jonathan Crane might be over forty, but he’d invented a fighting style, can convince others to commit suicide (and has, in the past), and his second personality is not confined to a doll. It isn’t helpful that Jonathan’s recovery hadn’t happened overnight, which Bruce doesn’t blame Jonathan for at all, he’d seen that coming, but it does mean Jonathan had had a few episodes in the aftermath of his psychosis. Bruce had managed to settle every situation, but each one had taken their tolls on the workplace.

Bruce likes to think they’re all in a situation now where most of his employees lean toward the notion that Jonathan Crane really has turned over a new leaf. If there’re more problems regarding Jonathan’s presence, Bruce isn’t going to enjoy dealing with the same conversation yet again.

He’s tempted to get Alfred to deal with it, but Bruce Wayne’s butler doesn’t have as much authority, and it really would feel silly, in the end.

“I can talk with them again,” Bruce tries to say, but Jonathan waves a dismissive hand at him.

“Bruce, I still get stopped in the street and told what an asshole I’ve been fer the last decade or so, how I shoulda fried on the electric chair already. The worst yer people do is stare and whisper behind my back, an’ I got used ta that in my youth.”

Bruce nods stiffly. He knows vaguely of Jonathan’s past, as much information as Jonathan’s legal records have of him, but Scarecrow’s mere existence implies Jonathan’s childhood hadn’t been a pleasant one.

Jonathan, of course, knows of Bruce’s childhood. All of Gotham knows about the Waynes.

“But there is a problem,” Bruce says to bring them back on topic.

Jonathan sniffs and looks toward the window, little finger resting parallel to his bottom lip. “Ain’t nothin’ ta worry about.”

“You know that’s not how I work.”

Jonathan snorts. “Dunno if I know that better cause of nowadays or cause o’ way back when.”

Bruce offers a hum.

There’s quiet between the two of them, stopped from being pure silence only by the squeaking in the cage by the wall, where Bernie has left her cardboard box nest and is currently mouthing at her tiny paws and wiping behind her ears - the left, perfect, the right, with a little nick in it - with them.

Jonathan looks at Bruce, only to find him staring expectantly, then Jonathan sighs. Something is really irritating about the fact that he himself used to do that to his patients and later his victims, staring until the silence got to them and they spoke. He doesn’t know if he should be flattered about it being used on him or not.

“Turns out,” Jonathan says, “retirement ain’t all it’s cracked up to be.”

“Meaning?” Bruce asks.

“It’s _mind-numbin’.”_ Jonathan drops his arm from the couch’s. “Fer God’s sake, Bruce - I’m _bored.”_

Bruce blinks once, astonished. “Bored?”

“Yes! Bored!” Jonathan gestures to the window, to Gotham’s airy night, with one hand. “I used ta be spendin’ my nights runnin’ around, gettin’ chased by a man in a _costume_ who was gonna take me ta the _cops!_ I used ta go ta _meetin’s_ with other criminals and talk about who owned what in the city!” He splutters for a moment, his gesture becoming wild. “I used ta _own things_ in this city! Now all I own are the clothes on my back, my guitar and - and -” he flounders for a moment, then gestures to Bernie’s cage, “- _Bernie!”_

Bruce looks over his shoulder at the cage, only to find Bernie watching her owner, her tiny front paws resting on a horizontal bar of her cage, her nose twitching in his direction.

Bruce finds it quite impressive that Jonathan has taught Bernie her name, amongst other things.

“Hi, Bernie,” Bruce calls.

Bernie immediately drops to all fours and goes scurrying back into her nest to hide from him.

“Don’t do that,” Jonathan says, a strict bark in his tone, “she still ain’t used ta you, yer scarin’ ‘er.”

Bruce had to learn very quickly that Bernie’s fear is the only kind Jonathan never likes to see and that Jonathan is fiercely protective of the little brown rodent. One of his aforementioned episodes had been because Bruce - as Batman, before Jonathan had learned the two were the same thing - had accidentally stepped on her tail when he’d come to check on Jonathan’s recovery progress, not realising Jonathan had let her out of her cage. He’d almost set Jonathan back at least ten paces, the way he’d threatened to teach Batman the real meaning of fear after wrestling him to the ground in a fit of rage and trying to plunge a knife into his jaw.

Bruce had paid for the vet bills as an apology that Jonathan wouldn’t receive until after he’d discovered the truth about Batman. He’d also let that incident slide since it had been Batman’s accidental provocation that had made Jonathan attack him, and it isn’t likely that Bernie will be in harm’s way very often, so it isn’t a worry that it will happen again any time soon.

Bruce is very careful with where he steps nowadays.

“Sorry,” Bruce says, then turns back to his partner. “You miss being a Rogue?”

“I miss being _somethin’,”_ Jonathan replies. “Don’t _miss_ Arkham, an’ none o’ the others were my friends. Don’t miss you beatin’ the crap outta me. I’ll go as far as ta say I don’t miss the murder, though that was more often an unfortunate side effect of the drugs.”

Bruce frowns. They’ll have to discuss those feelings toward killing later because he does not like to hear Jonathan being so casual about it.

“I miss gettin’ out and about. I miss folks bein’ scared of the sight of me, an’ I don’t mean the stuff yer employees get up to. Yeah, it’s fun ta watch ‘em squirm if I stare fer too long, but that gets old. I miss,” he brings his hands out in front of him and mimes squeezing something, the look in his eyes briefly turning manic, “I miss the _screams._ I miss people scramblin’ ta get away. I miss ‘em _runnin’.”_ He grins savagely at the thought, then frowns deeply and folds his arms over his unbuttoned waistcoat and loose tie, looking to the window again. “Nobody screams in the presence of the old man in a vest and tie, no matter his past. Perhaps that sets me back in my progress, but it’s how I feel.”

Bruce stares.

He’s not sure if he should feel concerned for these thoughts or not. It _is_ progress that Jonathan hasn’t mentioned wanting to actually go out and experiment on people again and it’s good that he’s made no indication that he’s going to go out and kill people again, accident or not. It _isn’t_ progress, however, that Jonathan longs for fear so much again and that he does want to inflict it upon people.

Bruce purses his lips and looks away to think.

He supposes it’s fine for Jonathan to have a passion for something; he’s been obsessed with fear for so long, Bruce doubts any kind of therapy could get him over it just like that. It’s what he’d been doing with that obsession that had been a bad thing. So Jonathan can have his obsession, but what he needs is an outlet.

A healthy, society-abiding, non-criminal outlet.

Bruce thinks it over, then looks down at the bat symbol on his chest. His eyes widen with realisation.

Light bulb.

How many screams does _Batman_ hear every night? How many times do people trip over themselves in their scramble to get away? How many people run away from him?

He sets a gloved hand over the symbol, then looks to Jonathan.

“I think I have your answer.”

Jonathan looks at him, stares, then looks at what he’s touching. He ponders that, then his face falls in realisation.

“Ya can’t be serious.”

“Why not?” Bruce asks.

“Why not? Because I ain’t a hero, that’s why.”

“You could be.”

“No, I couldn’t.” Jonathan rests his elbows on his chair’s arms and laces his fingers together. “You do what you do cause you wanna help people, ya don’t want yer childhood ta repeat itself. _I_ don’t care about other people, and I acknowledge that kids are in bad situations all the time. I may not be a murderer or mad scientist anymore, but that don’t mean I’m a gold star citizen. For all intents and purposes, I could still classify as a sociopath.”

“You’re not without empathy,” Bruce says, turning slightly at the waist to gesture to Bernie.

Jonathan points at him. “That’s textbook, an’ I expect better from you. I may show signs of empathy - blips as they may be - but do ya _really_ want a ‘hero’ without _compassion_ runnin’ around the place?”

“You studied to become a psychiatrist; you wouldn’t have taken up that kind of career goal if you didn’t want to help people.”

“I did it fer the science.”

“I don’t believe that.”

Jonathan scoffs. “Believe what ya want. Even if I did, that was a long time ago. What, are ya gonna teach me how ta care again?”

“I thought I already had,” Bruce says honestly, a hint of a smile in his tone.

Jonathan looks him in the eye, sees the glimmer of amusement, then snorts and shakes his head at the cheesy line. He waves a hand at Bruce dismissively, looking toward the window again.

Bruce takes the opportunity to slide closer to the arm of the couch he’s sat on, reaching out to take the hand Jonathan had waved at him. He keeps his grip loose, feeling Jonathan flinch when he wraps his fingers around his palm; he knows Jonathan still isn’t one-hundred percent used to physical touch, especially the kind that isn’t pinning him or harming him, and so he makes it clear that Jonathan can take his hand back if he wants to.

He doesn’t.

“Be serious,” Jonathan says with a slight fondness in his tone.

“I’m always serious,” Bruce replies.

Jonathan snorts again. He covers his lips with the other hand to keep his laughter within him.

“I wouldn’t recommend this solution if I didn’t think you were capable,” Bruce says, bringing them back on topic. “You have experience out there, you invented a fighting style that others can’t match without knowledge of it beforehand,” (he remembers his first few fights with Jonathan and Scarecrow, where their unnatural grace and dance-like steps had thrown him entirely off guard, not to mention Scarecrow’s natural acrobatics and light footing), “which will keep you safe. You’ll get your own grappling hook, explosive gel and other equipment as well as training so you and I will be on near-equal footing. I believe you’re capable of compassion, I’ve seen you save people in the past, like that girl you helped after her assault.”

“I didn’t _save_ her,” Jonathan says bitterly, remembering how Molly - his favourite student, brightest amongst the class he’d taught during his last attempt to reform before this one - had come running to his office in tears, sobbing into his chest about what her date had done to her, how he hadn’t stopped no matter how much she told him ‘no’. “I got revenge fer ‘er, an’ helped get _him_ put away.”

“You didn’t have to.”

Jonathan glares. “I don’t sympathise with _rapists.”_

Bruce looks him in the eye. “And how many of those types of people do you think I meet a week? You’re telling me you’d just stand by if you ever came upon such a scene?”

Jonathan scowls and turns back to the window.

White hot rage had been poured into his heart as soon as he’d understood what Molly had been crying about, at first ashamed to speak, then suddenly wailing into his chest about what her date had done. Lightning had struck outside when Jonathan had come to the decision of what he was going to do about this situation. He’d left Molly in his office, his tweed jacket around her shoulders and a promise that she’d be safe there, then he’d left her to go and have a conversation with his second personality in the men’s bathrooms.

They’d both come to the same conclusion, just like old times: the boy had had to suffer.

He knows Scarecrow hadn’t cared about what had happened to Molly, it’d just been a way to get Jonathan back into crime, but at least he’d been willing to go and collect the boy and he’d almost managed to cut the fucker’s head off before Batman had intervened.

Molly had visited him in Arkham a week later to thank him, to tell him how she was going to attend therapy to try and recover from this, and to wish him luck in his own life.

He hasn’t seen her since. He hopes she’s doing well; she’d been a remarkable and pleasant student.

In general, it’d been silently agreed upon by most of the Rogues that sexual assault of any kind isn’t acceptable amongst them, regardless of what else they’d done in their criminal careers; rape is a special kind of evil. Jervis Tetch had sometimes been on thin ice, with his affinity for controlling the minds of young women to be his Alice, but at least he’d never touched above the knees.

“I think you’re capable of caring,” Bruce reiterates, “and you’ve shown capabilities of empathy -”

“I told you, that’s textbook,” Jonathan says. “Sociopaths are capable of growin’ attached to a certain individual or a certain group of people. They’re made, not born, so they c’n keep relationships from before their diagnosis. Psychopaths are the ones that go without. Speakin’ o’ which,” he looks to Bruce and taps the side of his own head, “how long d’you think we’ll go before the one that lives in _my_ head decides ta come back?”

Bruce’s gaze hardens. He hopes that isn’t a sign that Jonathan has been conversing with Scarecrow at all. The last time he saw Scarecrow had been in the aftermath of Jonathan discovering his secret.

“You’ve got your medication.”

“An’ it’s worn off in the past, so who’s to say it won’t happen again?”

“I’ll be there. You know I can take him.”

“An’ I suppose a regular citizen can too?”

“You can fight him; you’ve learned how. We can keep you monitored, check your medication regularly.”

“Oh, well,” Jonathan nods, “so long as I’m monitored.”

Bruce stares, disliking the sarcasm, and Jonathan senses his stare and looks at him, then scoffs.

“Don’t look at me like that; these’re perfectly justified concerns.”

“They are, and you’re entitled to them. But it’s as I said, Jonathan, I wouldn’t offer you this option if I didn’t think you were capable of it.” His grip on Jonathan’s hand tightens just slightly, a reassuring pressure rather than a trap. “I trust you.”

“Not a hundred percent.”

Bruce doesn’t reply to that.

With a sigh, Jonathan’s expression softens and for a moment, he looks as though he doesn’t know what to do with himself, like he’s trying to find another reason to fight Bruce on this.

If Jonathan really doesn’t want to become a vigilante with him, Bruce won’t force it and will gladly help his partner find another outlet for his cravings, but honestly? Honestly, he’s hoping that Jonathan will be up for this because he genuinely believes this will be the best option for getting Jonathan everything he needs to continue living an Arkham-free life.

“An’ what about yer kids?” Jonathan asks dryly, apparently settling on another argument. “They won’t like me joinin’ the team. Didn’t even like me sittin’ at their dinner table.”

Ah, yes, that would probably be a problem. Bruce’s family hadn’t taken to Jonathan with open arms, after all, and Bruce hadn’t expected them to. Before Jonathan had known who the family really was, it had just looked like Dick, Tim and Barbara were remembering his crimes and, like much of the rest of Gotham, weren’t willing to believe he could live a new life. After finding out their statuses as Nightwing, Robin and Batgirl/the mysterious ‘Oracle’ that the Rogues sometimes heard Batman speaking to, there had been a new level of understanding when it came to their attitudes toward him.

Even Alfred had a certain passive-aggression in his tone, clipped but still polite, but at least he’d shown the bare minimum of respect towards ‘Master Jonathan’.

“They’ll come around,” Bruce says.

For the most part, that’s already true; though they aren’t happy with the arrangement and still aren’t chummy toward him, at least Bruce’s apprentices don’t ignore Jonathan or flat-out leave the room when he walks in anymore. Jonathan doesn’t spend much time at Wayne Manor, but the time he does spend there is no longer incredibly awkward. Only greatly awkward - which is progress.

“Will they? That’s nice,” Jonathan says dryly.

Bruce cocks a small smile, trying to lighten the mood. “Are you scared of them?”

Jonathan doesn’t snort this time; he looks to Bruce sharply. _“Don’t.”_

Bruce’s smile falls; he realises his mistake.

Jonathan’s entire reformation had come about because of his experiments inadvertently screwing with his own brain until he could no longer feel fear, not even toward Batman. After having a breakdown, during which he performed several pseudo-suicidal acts before hysterically crying and laughing in front of Batman over his mistake, Jonathan had been offered Bruce’s help.

The rest, as they say, is history.

It’ll take years before Jonathan’s brain heals from the complicated mutation his own fear toxin has performed upon it. Until then, all they can do is wait.

Bruce realises it had been a risk, asking Jonathan to recreate the drug in order to turn it into an antidepressant when it had done him such harm, but all had gone well in the end. He still feels bad about it.

“Sorry,” Bruce says honestly.

Jonathan nods once, which is either acknowledging the apology or accepting it, or both.

Bruce doesn’t dwell on it.

“I’m not asking you to join me on patrol right now,” Bruce says. “I know this will be a big change, but you’ve gone through three big changes already and you survived and conquered those; I think you’ll do the same with this one.”

Jonathan sniffs. “…You have a lot of faith in me.”

“I wouldn’t be _with you_ if I didn’t have faith in your capabilities.”

One side of Jonathan’s lips turns up in a smile. “…Some might say that’s misguided.”

“I wouldn’t.”

To prove his point, Bruce brings Jonathan’s hand up to his lips and presses a soft kiss onto the skin of his knuckles.

Even in the dim lighting of the room, he sees the way Jonathan’s cheeks light up red and he feels the way Jonathan’s hand flinches to get away from him as his lips touch his skin.

Reluctantly, after taking his lips from Jonathan’s knuckles, Bruce lets his hand go, and Jonathan holds it to himself with the other hand. He can see the inner conflict in Jonathan’s body language; as much as he enjoys Bruce’s company, a relationship with Jonathan Crane is to be taken in baby steps, especially since this is his first one.

They’ve already kissed by this point, which Jonathan seems fine with most of the time (probably due to Bruce not being the first man he’s ever kissed; that had been back when Jonathan had been twenty-three and about to lose his virginity), but the more sentimental moments of intimacy seem to be the things that drives him back into his comfort zone.

That’s fine; it’s not like Bruce is an expert on relationships either. There’s something enjoyable about learning this sort of thing together.

Bruce watches Jonathan carefully, trying to convey with his eyes that he hadn’t meant to alarm him and he doesn’t mean to treat Jonathan like he _has_ to come and work with Batman; it’s entirely Jonathan’s decision.

“…I, uh,” Jonathan says after moments of silence, head turned away from Bruce, gaze on the floorboards of his living room, “…I gotta think about it.”

“That’s fine,” Bruce says with an understanding and reassuring shake of his head. “Like I said, I’m not expecting you to jump out that window with me.” He tries again to lighten the mood a little. “…If that option doesn’t sound appealing, though, I suppose I could…chase you around your apartment while you cackle like a madman, just like old times.”

This one gets Jonathan to actually laugh, even if it’s only a quick bark of it before he slaps his hand over his mouth.

Bruce’s face breaks out into a small grin at the noise.

“C’mon, my neighbours hate me enough,” Jonathan says, “they don’t need the noise ta encourage ‘em.”

“I suppose not,” Bruce replies.

His chest still vibrating with chuckles, Jonathan adds with a wag of a finger, “Temptin’, though, that’s mighty temptin’.”

Bruce chuckles.

A few moments tick by, then Bruce stands from his place on the couch and reaches for his helmet.

“I have to get back out there,” he says, lifting the helmet up to slide over his head. With a hiss, it hugs his skull and slips back into place, snug but comfortable.

“Right, right.” Jonathan waves a dismissive hand at him. “I gotta go ta bed anyhow; ya been keepin’ me up, an’ I ain’t a night owl anymore.”

“Sorry about that.”

“Meh.”

Batman smirks lightly, then walks around the coffee table to get to Jonathan, where he leans over his chair, hands upon the arms, and presses a tender kiss to Jonathan’s scarred lips. He feels Jonathan return it no problem, leaning up in his chair slightly to more comfortably kiss the Batman, then they break their lip-lock with a small smirk each.

“Go on, get outta here,” Jonathan says. “An’ if ya run inta any of my old colleagues, tell ‘em the Scarecrow says hi.”

Batman turns his back on his partner, still smirking in amusement. “Not sure I’m allowed to.”

“Yer Batman; when have the rules ever stopped you before?”

Batman doesn’t reply, just opens his window, slides out, then shuts it behind him. With practised ease, he grips the windowsill and plants his feet on the bricks of the apartment building, then fishes his grapple gun from his belt and aims for a rooftop.

Jonathan watches from his armchair as the hook and cord are shot off into the distance, then the Batman goes following it, disappearing into the darkness, flying through the sky of Gotham’s chilly night.

He considers this, then says aloud, “Y’know, Bernie…always thought that grapplin’ business looked sorta fun.”


End file.
